


Training Injuries

by Nexidava



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Canon-Typical Dickishness, Dom Mercymorn, Dubious Consent, F/F, Finger Sucking, Harrow the Ninth Spoilers (Locked Tomb Trilogy), I may not be a good writer but I am a horny one, Masochism, Masochist Ianthe Tridentarius, OOC Mercymorn?, Sadism, Sadist Mercymorn, Schrödinger's Aphrodisiacs, Schrödinger's Gaslighting, Sub Ianthe Tridentarius, Violence, aka bitchshipping, mercianthe agenda!, the inherent eroticism of bullying ianthe, this might be safe but it isn't sane or consensual, why am i like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25911955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nexidava/pseuds/Nexidava
Summary: Ianthe needs training.  Mercymorn wants to help.Her methods are somewhat unorthodox.
Relationships: Mercymorn the First/Ianthe Tridentarius
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	Training Injuries

Ianthe hated training. Swinging around a sword under Augustine’s watchful eye, feeling every bit the fool as she clumsily ran through drills, squandering the potential that Babs had paid for with his soul. It never got easier - the instincts were wrong, and her body refused to move the way she knew it should.

She was about halfway through her daily exercise in futility when Mercymorn entered the training room. The last thing Ianthe needed was another pair of eyes taking her measure, finding her lacking. And certainly not the Saint of Joy, whose epithet was so ill-fitting that Ianthe could only wonder at the Emperor’s sense of humor.

“What a stupendous waste of time this is, Augustine. She’s barely improved since she got here, for all your instruction.” Mercymorn leaned against the wall, idly inspecting her fingernails. “Let’s try something different, or we’ll still be here beating our heads against a wall when Number Seven arrives.”

Ianthe felt the flush of embarrassment entering her cheeks, and quickly schooled her features, directing the excess blood away from the surface of her skin. The last thing she needed was to give Mercymorn another opening.

“How about this,” the saint continued on, “I’ll take Ianthe for now, you take Harrow, and we’ll see if anything changes. We don’t have time to waste on failure.”

Augustine sighed - a long, shaky breath that betrayed his annoyance. It could have been directed at either one of them.

“Alright, Mercy, she’s all yours. Try not to make a mess, will you?” With that, he turned and left the training room, leaving Ianthe alone with the now-grinning Lyctor.

“You can put that sword away, Tridentarius. You’ve got some work to do before I subject myself to that shameful display a second time.” She squared up on the mat, waiting for Ianthe to copy her. “We’re going to try a little hand-to-hand training. I’m not expecting much of you, just try not to pass out too fast.”

Ianthe was opening her mouth to protest when Mercymorn’s fist slammed into it. After she was done spitting out broken teeth, Ianthe stood up from where she had crumpled to the floor.

“Was that really necessa-” The kick took her in the stomach, and she found herself flat on her back, with Mercymorn staring down at her, and in that moment, Ianthe could almost see why she might have been called the Saint of Joy.

“I don’t think you get it,  _ sister _ ,” she said, in a tone that was anything but familial. “I’m going to keep hitting you until you can stop me. Save your breath for something that matters.”

Ianthe’s lungs were heaving in and out, still winded from the kick. She rolled to one side and struck with a leg sweep, a move that had undoubtedly come from the remains of the mind that was Naberius Tern.

Mercymorn’s foot came down, hard, snapping through tibia and fibula, and pinning Ianthe’s now-broken leg to the mat.

Retching from behind clenched teeth, Ianthe worked to keep the tears from her eyes, as her lyctoral regeneration tried and failed to pull her leg back together.

“Good form, but there’s more to fighting that just lashing out at the first opportunity.” Mercymorn stepped back into a ready position, giving Ianthe’s leg time to heal. “You might have his instincts, but you don’t have his knowledge. That, you’re going to have to learn for yourself.”

Ianthe watched her bones realign themselves and knit back together. Getting shakily to her feet, she tested her weight on her leg.

Mercymorn chose this moment to strike, a fist to the gut doubling Ianthe over. Struggling to breathe, struggling to move, Ianthe couldn’t help but notice how close Mercymorn was to her - she could feel her breath, see her pulse through the veins of her arms.

A second punch to the gut forced a low groan out of her mouth. Mercymorn spun, a kick to the chest sending Ianthe flying. Before she could collect herself, Mercymorn was there, kneeling above her.

“Not exactly a good showing, Tridentarius.” There was no effort to hide the disdain on her face. “Let’s see-”

Ianthe whipped her fist out at Mercymorn’s head, trying to land at least one good hit. The older Lyctor caught the punch almost lazily.

“Wait. Are you serious?” Holding Ianthe’s wrist, Mercymorn’s face twisted in confusion and disgust. “I know the Third is into some messed up shit, but are you really getting off on this, Tridentarius?”

Ianthe’s train of thought hit a brick wall.

“What?”

“Don’t even try it, Tridentarius. I can see everything about your body right now, and what I’m seeing is  _ aroused _ .” She paused. “Were you  _ letting _ me beat you up?”

“Of course not. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Ianthe sniffed dismissively. “Maybe you’re not quite as good at this as you thought.”

“Oh?” Mercymorn reached down, slipping a hand into Ianthe’s robes. “So you’re telling me you’re not wet right now?”

Ianthe’s breath caught, unable to speak, as the hand ghosted lower. She could just barely hear the slide of skin against fabric above the rush of blood in her ears. She bucked her hips as Mercymorn’s hand slid into her underwear, and- Oh.

The hand came back into view, glistening.

“Is that what you call this?”

Mercymorn’s smirk was unbearably smug, Ianthe thought. She didn’t even bother trying to hide her blush.

“The way I see it, there are two options.” She held up a finger on her clean hand. “One, we continue training, and you get off later to the memory of me burying my fist in your gut.”

As Ianthe opened her mouth to protest, Mercymorn took the opportunity to slip two wet fingers inside, resting gently against Ianthe’s tongue.

“Be a good girl and clean those off, okay?” She raised a second finger. “Two, we go back to my room, and find out what else you’re into.”

Ianthe didn’t think she could get any more embarrassed. Trying to deny it would just be prolonging the inevitable. She’d never hear the end of it, if she said no, and… she’d be lying if she said there wasn’t a part of her that wanted this. Would it be so bad to let go, just this once?

Mercymorn took her fingers out of Ianthe’s mouth.

“You certainly liked that well enough, didn’t you? Maybe I’ll have to find you some other things to suck, hmm?” Ianthe stayed silent.

“Ready to go?”, Mercy asked, a small smile on her face. Ianthe nodded, and allowed Mercy to pick her up and carry her away.


End file.
